Do Not Be Weary
by Wolvinheart
Summary: A series of glimpses into Dean and Castiel's relationship.
1. Do Not Be Weary

**A/N: **This won't be a continuous story, more like short glimpses into various Dean/Castiel interactions, and sometimes other people's views of how they see their interactions. The settings and timeline will jump around. It will have slash overtones, and outright slash much of the time, if that's not your thing, you shouldn't be reading this. This won't ever be complete, as I said, it's not a story. But either way, I hope you enjoy these short snapshots of Dean and Castiel.

**Spoilers: **Major spoiler from Family Matters! Season six.

**Slash: **Extremely mild.

* * *

Dean sighed, leaning his fevered forehead against the cool mirror in the dingy bathroom of the hotel. Sam had left just a few minutes ago, and Dean couldn't bring himself to object to his leaving, despite his current soulless state and the trouble that might cause for them. They were in California for a time, and it was hot as hell after the cold winter of Wisconsin.

Dean felt like he was burning from the inside out. Hellfire was still in the forefront of his memories, but at the moment those thoughts were distant and it was all he could do not to stick his head in the freezer. The only thing that was stopping him was the fact that it smelled like something had gone and died in there, left to rot in the sweltering heat.

Then he felt it, a crack of electricity racing along his spine before he felt a breeze of air across his neck, cold in the heat of the grim bathroom.

"Do not be weary, Dean."

Dean froze before taking a quick step to the side and evaluating the man standing in front of him. Only he wasn't a man, was he? Medium in stature and small in build, average, one would think, if not for that thousand yard stare, that he was your everyday joe.

Dean had learned early on in his life to never trust appearances.

"So, what is this? You don't have any time for us when we actually need some goddamn help, but I'm a little tired and you pop in for a little touchy feely one on one? Cut the crap, Cas."

Dean saw a flicker in Castiel's eyes and then it was gone and the angel was turning away to stalk into the small bedroom, trench coat flapping in his wake.

"I have come, Dean, because there has been a break in the front and we are in a moment of stalemate. I was . . . drained."

Castiel turned back around and his voice, if possible, became more rough, deep notes dragging over gravel.

"I seek, comfort."

Dean stared before snorting and returning to the sink to splash lukewarm water over his face, taking a handful and patting it over the back of his neck. He stared at his bloodshot face in the mirror.

"Yeah? And how's this shit room a comfort for you? You could go anywhere in the world Cas, go to Hawaii or a strip joint, this place is anything but a vacation."

His eyes avoided the solid stare of his companion, instead dropping back down to the sink as Castiel replied.

"Human habitats bring me no reprieve Dean, I have no love of Earths establishments."

Dean tensed at the implication of why Castiel was in his hotel room, the only reason left. He refused to look up and therefore did not see Castiel moving closer to him, reaching out a hand before letting it drop back to his side in a strict movement.

"I seek companionship. I have been weary as of late. And my remaining brothers are of no comfort to me."

Dean swallowed, and, steeling himself, brought his eyes up to the cloudy mirror, catching the endlessly blue gaze and the stoic face of Castiel, his resident angel.

"What can I do?"


	2. Silence

**Spoilers: **General season five.

**Slash: **Extremely mild.

* * *

Castiel sat.

He was still and silent in the deceptively quiet bedroom.

All around him he could hear the pulses of souls crying out into the night. He had not known that Earth would be like this, a constant torment on his senses. He had found that there was only one thing that would soothe his aches.

Dean Winchester was a righteous man, for all his Earthly pleasures, a strong man. His soul lit the dark night with the brightest throb of light that Castiel had ever laid eyes on.

In hell, he had been a beacon, shining amidst the darkness, tarnished and twisted, yet more vivid than any of the condemned souls newly dragged down to perdition.

When he had received his orders, Castiel had feared. What man, however righteous he may be could be brought back from hell onto an Earth torn with human despair and suffering and thrive to become not a demon, but a savior of men.

Then Castiel had seen Dean Winchester's soul and he had feared no more.

So when the anguish of the world became too much for him, and Heaven offered no sanctuary, casting him into the depths of sorrow and pain, Castiel came to Dean.

Many times, Dean did not realize it was happening, as Castiel flitted, silent among the shadows of the Earth, an unvoiced observer. The man's dreams were visited even more frequently. When he chose to, Castiel allowed Dean to know of his presence.

This was not one of those times.

He walked as a shade does, his existence in the dream nothing more than a thought one could not grasp.

Castiel saw Dean Winchester in a room much like the one his body was currently residing in, cramped and painted bright.

He was sitting across from his brother, but this Sam was young, innocent as he no longer was nor could ever be again.

Young Sam was reaching across the bed to hand Dean a chord with a dangling gold pendant when a chasm opened in the ground and hellfire rose and pulled the young Winchester down screaming in surprise and terror.

Yet before Dean could reach him the chasm closed tight and all he could do was grab madly at the singed carpet, burning his fingers with the residual heat.

Castiel decided it was time to intervene.

He came out of the shadows and crouched before the crying man, raising his hand to rest it over Dean's eyes. Slowly, the image around them faded to a dirty garage filled with an imposing black car, the Impala, Castiel recalled. A gruff man worked diligently under the hood, pausing only to stick his hand out and demand, "Wrench."

This was a cherished memory, contentment seeped from the edges of this reality.

With a thought, Castiel removed the traces of the previous dream and took his hand away as he faded back into the world, leaving Dean to be with his reminiscence.

When he came back to himself in his borrowed body, his being felt more at ease with the good that he had done.

Around him, the soul of Dean Winchester pulsed, shining just a bit brighter than before.


	3. Simple Tastes

**Spoilers: **General season six.

**Slash: **Mild.

* * *

Dean was a man with simple tastes. He liked women, beer, fast cars, and killing evil sons of bitches. There were deviations to this pattern to be sure. On occasion, he enjoyed whiskey, and on one notable instance, rum. There were also times when all he wanted to do is stop hunting and hunker down for a few weeks to work on his baby and wake up to the pounding of Ben on the door, wanting breakfast, and wanting it _now. _

And sometimes, those were things Dean thought he could actually manage to do, if there came a time of quiet.

But never once in his life had he reconsidered the first option. In his youth he had dabbled as all drunken college age boys filled with reckless abandon were bound to do. But those were memories filled with haze and made easy by the excuse of copious amounts of vodka.

This situation was different. And it had all started a week ago when Castiel knocked five short raps on the door of the room, waiting for Dean to open the door before walking in, dripping wet as a dog caught in a storm and blood staining his usually impeccable, if disheveled clothes.

The Angel had looked down at himself and all that showed his disdain of his state was the slight crinkling in the corner of his eyes. Dean noticed this instantly and gave a put upon sigh.

"Really dude? You get a little dirty and you can't even, you know," He snapped his fingers and waved his hands around, "zap it off?"

Castiel frowned, picking at the threadbare ends of his trench coat.

"I am usually quite capable of maintaining a state of cleanliness. However, I find myself . . . "Castiel pursed his lips, and shook his head, as if saying that this was his problem and he would have to face it.

"I find myself cut off from the powers of Heaven once again. "

Dean froze; worry gnawed at the edges of his thoughts as he snapped "What? I thought you were some kind of leader up there, a real holy Guevara."

He saw Castiel frown at the reference before he replied.

"In this case, it is not a matter of my disobedience. A siege was brought to the Heavenly gates, and I was on Earth at the time. All paths have been closed as a way to ensure a victory for either side.

"With this, my otherworldly influences on this plane are greatly reduced."

Dean smirked at him, an idea coming into his mind.

"So basically what you're saying is that you need a Laundromat, right?"

Castiel stared.

Dean brought him a change of clothes.

What Dean hadn't expected was for the Angel to begin stripping in economical motions, depositing his dripping outfit onto the bed, folded and creased neatly.

Dean knew that Angel's either had no concept of human courtesy, or ignored them just for the fun of it. As far as Dean knew, Castiel was neither. He seemed to grasp the basic concepts of society, and yet at every turn he forgot them in his complete absorption with whatever he was doing.

Dean assumed stripping in front of another dude when there was a bathroom like _three feet away _was one of those things.

So he looked off to the side, but not before seeing a brief flash of pale skin and dark hair in motion. A few moments later, a warm hand landed on his shoulder, not grabbing, but simply resting there, before disappearing and leaving a lingering feeling of heat.

Dean turned, and the sarcastic remark died on his tongue at the sight of the disheveled angel dressed in his clothes. Jeans that had been washed far too many times, kept only for sentimental reasons as they no longer fit Dean, worn and thin, threadbare at the knees and thigh. Above that was a simple black t-shirt that had seen better days, but was clean, and relatively hole-less. Not to say there weren't any, as the hints of shadowed, sinewy flesh showed.

Dean's eyes snapped up to Castiel's intense blue stare, blinking and trying to swallow past a suddenly dry throat.

Well, fuck.


	4. For All Intents and Purposes

**Spoilers: **General season five.

**Slash: **Mild.

* * *

Castiel had never understood the human need for physical comfort until he had been cast onto the Earth, powerless, with the voices of his brothers weak in the distance.

Try as he might, he could not contact them by Heavenly means and he was left feeling bereft, empty in the new found silence.

He could not travel by his usual means, confined to his vessels body, and he hungered and wanted with a desperate need that he had never before felt. He was for all intents and purposes human in his desires.

When the feeling first came to him, he did not understand what it was. An aching pull in his chest that no amount of rest or nourishment could calm.

And then he had received a message on the human contraption he had been forced to buy with fumbling fingers in order to contact the Winchester's. The voice coming through the other end was gruff.

"_Hey, Cas. Look man I know you're dealing with a lot of shit right now, but find me when you can. We need to talk."_

It was infuriatingly short and vague- but more frustrating was the fact that upon hearing it, Castiel's chest felt like it was going to burst with emotion. The previously formless feeling sharpened to the point of pain and he felt the overwhelming urge to see Dean.

Having learned that catering to his bodily needs was better than trying to ignore them, Castiel obliged his heart and bought a bus ticket.

In only a few short hours he arrived at the motel that he knew housed the two brothers. For all that his powers were gone he retained his bond with Dean, formed when he gripped the man tight about the shoulder and pulled him struggling from Hell.

Instinct led him to the correct door upon which he knocked, the previously painful feeling altering to a new, strange emotion. His vessels head felt light and a fluttering sensation engulfed his midsection.

This only intensified when the door opened to reveal Dean Winchester standing shirtless and bleary eyed in the dark.

It was only then that Castiel realized it was the middle of the night, and that human's were inclined to rest during this time. But that thought was brushed away when he stepped into the room, glancing at the empty bed that was still made next to the one that Dean had obviously stumbled out of.

"Where is your brother?"

He turned just in time to see Dean scratch his head, hair in disarray.

"Fuck if I know. Half the time when I turn around he's gone."

Castiel frowned, knowing the closeness of the brother's had faded with recent events, but nonetheless, it was troubling that Sam Winchester was wandering around, whereabouts unknown to Angels and man alike, unsupervised.

"What do you wish to speak about Dean?"

Dean walked past him to his bed, bending over to rifle under the mattress. His shirt stretched taut about his shoulders and the hem lifted to reveal a strip of freckled skin.

Castiel swallowed then became curious as to why he had done so. The previous emotion had once again mutated. He discovered why as he began to associate those feelings with the accompanying actions that had caused them.

Loneliness.

Longing.

Lust.

He lusted after Dean Winchester and with that acknowledgement the feeling sank deep into his being.

Castiel was an Angel; he was older than the Earth itself. He was a warrior. When he came to a decision he was resolute and swift.

Dean had finally found what he had been searching for, and he rose triumphantly, holding an ancient tome in his right hand.

"There's this fucked up cult a county ov- mmph" and he could speak no more of these words around Castiel's mouth.


	5. Sam thinks Castiel is kind of a dick

**Spoilers: **None

**Slash: **It's there.

* * *

Sam thinks Castiel is kind of a dick sometimes.

He doesn't hold that against him, after all, it seems like all the angels are. Sam figures that it's just part of their nature.

But that doesn't mean he has to like it, and he can't quite grasp why his brother puts up with it, hell, seems to _enjoy _it even.

This was, of course, before Sam realized that Dean got treated a bit differently than he did.

If Sam's being honest, a _lot _differently.

Castiel never quietly came to him and rested a hand on his cheek, speaking low words of comfort after they lost a person during a routine hunt.

When having a choice of places to sit in the motel, he never chose to sit beside Sam on his bed, so close that their knees were touching as they talked battle plans and theories.

He definitely never pressed close to him, not an embrace, as both sets of arms were solidly at their sides, but bodies tight together, each tilted a different way as their foreheads touched.

And while Sam is still trying to scour the image from his mind, he thinks he would remember if Castiel's hands had ever slipped low to settle on his hips and angled his head curiously as his lips pressed hard and slow against his.

No, that's definitely Dean's territory.

Frankly, Sam is pretty glad.


End file.
